Peter Pan the way it began
by FlamingQuill
Summary: The origin of Peter, his fighting skills, his friends, and his emnity toward pirates. Rated teen for fatal swordplay.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I DON'T own Peter Pan.

**Author's Note:** This was originally going to be a book, and it still might turn out that way. I think it works good for a fanfic, though :D

Cheers to my first GOOD (hopefully) fanfic.

**Begin.**

Great giant oak trees swayed gently as the wind howled through their lofty branches. Large, cold drops of rain splattered the muddy hillside, where small streams were already beginning to flow down into the steep valley walls. Thunder cracked the air as lightning unleashed its full fury on a towering old rowan tree. The crash of its landing was silenced by another clap of thunder, but its weight shook the ground terribly, causing an old man making his way home to lose his footing on the hillside. He placed a gnarled hand in front of him to catch himself. His frail bones tolerated this rude treatment, but screamed their protest as the man slumped to the ground. He panted, and began to crawl halfheartedly through the gale. Finally, he collapsed beneath a tree. The great, broad boughs sheltered him somewhat from the rain. The old man shivered, and rolled himself into a ball for warmth. He draped his sodden cloak over himself, but it didn't do much more than make him colder. The old man felt despair grip his heart, and wondered if he would ever see his wife and newborn son again. The image of his wife huddled beside the fire with their little son in her arms flooded his mind. Her laughter seemed clear as a bell, her bright blue eyes sparkled at him from the recesses of his memory. Tears clouded his eyes, and he felt like dying.

Distantly, above the wailing and pounding of the storm, the faint whinny of a horse broke the air. The old man sat up quickly. It was probably some lord riding back to his estate, as caught by surprise by the sudden appearance of the tempest as the old peasant himself. But by this time, the old man was desperate for any type of assistance he could gain from anyone. He took a deep breath, and ran back out into the storm with a new surge of energy.

"Halloo!" he cried, with his hands cupped over his mouth. "Over here! Please help me!" He could see the horse and its rider. It was a splendid steed; it had an almost blue appearance, with bands of black and spatterings of white on its head and hindquarters. The rider was even more resplendent than the mare he rode; it was hard to see him through the pouring rain, but the old peasant could make out gold shining on his cloak pin, and his cloak was the deepest shade of royal purple. On his head sat a magnificent plumed hat. Beneath the brim was darkness, obscuring the face of the rider from view. The man turned his head at the peasant's call. The old man waved his arms to try to make himself more visible. He grabbed the corner of his cloak and flapped it in the wind. The rider spurred his horse forward. The elegant mare trotted up the old peasant.

"Please, my lord," the peasant begged, falling to his knees. "My wife and child are waiting for me, and I don't know what will happen to them if I don't return to them! Please, kind sir, please could you ride me home?" the old man asked beseechingly, staring imploringly into the shadow of the rider's face.

The rider made no reply, but was silent for a long while. Finally, he said, "If it may be repaid, old man, I will aid you."

The peasant nodded emphatically. "Whatever I can give, my lord, it is yours! Only help me return to my family." The man nodded, and slipped out of the saddle. He knelt, and cupped his hands for the peasant's foot. The old man's eyes widened at such uncommon courtesy, and he mounted the horse. He slid back as the lord remounted.

"Now, old man," he said as he took up the reins again, "Where is your dwelling?"

"On the southern edge of Panton," the peasant replied. "Just a half-a-mile straight forward." The rider nodded, and kicked the mare into a run. Shortly, the firelight of Panton was visible at the bottom of the hill where the horse paused.

"Is this the village?" The rider asked.

"Yes, sir." The peasant said thankfully. "I thank you very much sir. I can make it from here."

"No," the rider said softly. "I will to know where to collect payment."

"You may follow me if you wish, sir," the old peasant said uncomfortably. He slid out of the saddle, and started down the hill with the horse and rider a few paces behind. The peasant made his way to his own shabby little shack. The rider dismounted behind him, and tethered his mare to a nearby yew tree. The peasant opened the door for the lord, and bowed in thanks. He followed him inside. Immediately, his wife shrieked and ran to him. She threw her arms around him.

"Andrew, you're finally home!" she wailed. "I was so worried about you! I was fearful that you had hurt yourself in the storm!"

"It's fine, Mary, I'm home now. It's going to be okay," he said soothingly as sobs racked her body. "This kind gentleman gave me a ride home." Mary turned to see where Andrew pointed. She wiped her eyes, and stepped forward.

"I don't know how we'll ever repay your kindness, my lord," she said softly, curtseying to him. "You have saved my husband's life, and with his, mine and my son's. She glanced at a little bundle of blankets in a small wooden cradle. Inside, a tiny pink hand stirred, and the baby sighed in its sleep. "I am sorry we have no feast to reward you, my lord." She continued, returning her gaze to the man's face.

"My lady," he said grandly, sweeping his hat off his head and revealing the face more clearly beneath, "your kind thanks have warmed me through and through." He lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it. A pair of keen blue eyes stared into her startled hazel ones. He released her hand, and turned back to Andrew. "Andrew of Pan," he said, his sharp features studying the old peasant's face, "I have but one request of payment, and luckily, you seem to have it right on hand." His mud plastered boots shuffled across the dirt floor to the cradle. He bent and scooped up the sleeping baby boy in his arms. "What is your son's name?" He asked, looking into the tiny face.

"Peter," Andrew said apprehensively. "What is it that I have on hand? What do you want?" The man didn't answer, but continued to study the little boy. Andrew's eyes widened, and he exploded, "I couldn't! I couldn't give up Peter! I just couldn't!"

"Please, sir!" Mary cried, staring at her son's face. "Name something else! Anything else, and we will see that it is yours!"

"Up to my own self, I will give you anything else!" Andrew pleaded.

The man looked Andrew up and down with an ugly leer of disdain. "I have no use for you, old peasant!" he growled. "This child can be of use, however. He is young, and has many years ahead of him. He is my price, and not to be haggled upon." Mary rushed forward, weeping and pleading. The rider freed one hand of the burden, and ruthlessly shoved to woman to the floor. Andrew's eyes burned with indignation, and he stepped forward, ready to fight the man with his bare hands to get his son back. There was a glint, and Mary screamed. Peter awoke, and began to cry.

The storm had finally blown itself out. The clouds drifted apart, and the stars began to shine. Careful not to disturb the baby, James knelt down and wiped his sword clean on the damp grass. In a fluid, cautious movement, he sheathed the saber. James mounted his mare, and spurred her to action. She reared, her hooves pawing the air, and then she landed. But it was not on the peat where her hooves stopped. She charged forward, and she climbed the air to the very heavens. James twitched the reins, and she turned toward the moon. James halted her. He held up a velvet-gloved hand, and appeared to be counting stars. After a while, he seemed to have got his bearings. He turned the horse and stirred her forward again. In the blankets, Peter Pan slept tightly, and dreamed of nothing in particular.

**End...**

for now, anyway. Reviews appreciated :) And constructive critiques welcome.


	2. Anticipation

**Author's Note:** here I am again, after a tortuously long wait, lol :D

**Enjoy!**

Peter stumbled backward, and grabbed the rail to regain his balance. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his free hand. The other held a sword as long as his own leg. The sword was rusty, and had many notches in it with dirt hopelessly encrusted into them.

There was a low-pitched whistle, and a sword in considerably better condition stopped an inch from his neck. Too late, Peter lifted his sword to parry. The flat of his opponent's blade slapped him hard on the cheek, sending him to the ground.

"Never stop fighting." Came the cold voice of the captain. "I would have killed you right then and there if this were a real skirmish, boy! What's the matter with you?"

"I'm tired, Captain," Peter said tremulously, posture cowering. He knew what would happen next. The toe of the captain's hard leather boot kicked him painfully in the ribs.

"On your feet, boy!" the captain ordered, "Or you'll be dining with the rats, on what little they can provide for you." Peter got shaking to his feet. His arms and legs burned, and he felt a bruise developing where the captain had kicked him. He lifted his sword weakly. They had been sparring for over a half an hour now, and Peter was exhausted. The captain lowered his blade, and gave Peter a look of disdain. "There are no breaks in battle, boy." He said with a sneer. "Nor will your opponent go easy on you if you tire this quickly, or even at all."

"But Captain," Peter protested, "we've never fought for this long before, and I'm really tired!"

"Boy!" the captain roared. "We're training! You'll get more tired than this and have to go on, now DEFEND!" he lunged forward on this word, and gave a savage, merciless attack. Peter tried to parry, but the sword was knocked from his hands. He fell to his knees. The captain loomed over him with a look of disgust. "Go," he ordered. "You're useless. You'll never be fit for the Hunt." The captain turned his back on him, and began to walk away.

Peter looked up with pleading eyes. "But Captain, you promised!" The captain froze, and then whirled about.

"GO!" he thundered. He pulled a knife out of his belt, and hurled it at Peter. Peter dodged just in time. The knife stuck fast in the ship's rail. "Go!" the captain repeated. Peter turned tail and ran.

How Peter managed to keep running, he never knew. He felt as if he were about to keel right over any moment, and yet he kept his heels flying.

Peter didn't stop running until he was safely below deck. He collapsed, sweating heavily onto his cot. He lay there for several minutes, trying vainly to regain his breath, not bothering to turn over onto his back. The place where the captain had kicked him was throbbing painfully. Glancing down vaguely, he saw through a rip in his tunic an ugly blue invading his skin. Peter groaned. Yet another bruise. As if he didn't have enough of them already…

"Rough training again?" came a boy's voice from an adjacent cot. Peter nodded feebly. The sound of a blade being sharpened met Peter's ears.

"I just get so tired." Peter moaned, turning over with difficulty, meeting the gaze of his fellow apprentice. "He shows no mercy, I'll give him that." Peter said with a hollow laugh.

The other boy paused in his sharpening. "Does this look sharp enough?" he asked, holding out the sword.

Peter sighed. "It's sharp enough, Smee." He said, without bothering to inspect the saber in his friend's hand. "It happens when you do it five hours a day. But ya know, Smee," he continued, propping himself up on his elbows, looking Smee in the eye for the first time. "You could probably cut it down to, oh, I dunno, three hours instead? I know it seems a dreadfully short time," Peter said with a mischievous grin, "But I think it'd still get the trick done."

Smee's expression turned sour, and he set the sword down on the bed next to him. "Just wanna be ready for inspection," he muttered dourly.

Peter gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. "Aw, come on, Smee, don't sulk." He said, grinning. Grudgingly, Smee allowed a smile to form on his chubby lips. Peter laughed, and sat up. He was beginning to recover from the strenuous training session. "That's better, old mate!"

Smee's smile widened. "I'm just hopin', ya know," he said, his eyes turning misty, "that the cap'n will let me go on the Hunt next time," his voice was saturated with excitement. "You know, if'n I pass inspection this time."

"Well, then, what are we waiting for?" Peter exclaimed, laughing and leaping to his feet. "Let's practice. I'll inspect you first!" Smee laughed, and bumbled awkwardly to his feet. After a great deal of fumbling and fiddling, Smee stood to what passed for him as attention. Peter reached into the black, dead brazier that held their nighttime fire, and pulled out a piece of charcoal. He leaned over a water bowl to see his reflection, and drew a fine, flamboyant mustache above his lip. Next, Peter drew a thin, fussy goatee on his chin. He studied his reflection proudly for a few seconds, then tossed the burnt wood back into the brazier. He folded his hands behind his back, and paced before Smee, his posture painfully straight.

"Name!" he barked, with a ridiculously stern glare at Smee.

"Smee, Cap'n!" the boy tittered.

"No laughin', boy!" Peter snapped. Smee snickered all the more.

"You sound so much like him I could wet myself." Peter snorted in laughter, but quickly stifled it, and his features regained their austerity.

"Number!"

"Zero, Cap'n!"

"Rank!"

"I'm a 'prentice, Cap'n!"

"Present your weapon, filth!" Peter snapped. At this, Smee burst out laughing, and bent double. The laughter was contagious. In short order, both Peter and Smee were doubled over, clutching their stomachs with laughter.

Smee straightened up, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, and then froze. A look of horror replaced the formerly jolly expression. Peter turned. Standing in the doorway was the very man they mocked. His cold blue eyes stared unwaveringly at a point just below Peter's nose. With a jolt of terror, Peter realized what he was staring at. His hand jerked up, and smeared the charcoal marks so that they no longer resembled a moustache or beard.

"Cap'n," Smee said in a falsely cheerful voice. With a piercing look from the captain, Smee deflated. "Jus' gettin' ready for af'noon inpection, Sir." He muttered, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.

The captain remained silent, his eyes serpentine in the dim light from the portholes. "I'll just go and wash my face, then," Peter bumbled. "Must've gotten some ash on my hand when I stirred up the fire." Peter turned around to the water bowl.

"I'm glad that you have found a _productive_ use of your free time," Captain James said mildly, but in the undercurrents of his voice, danger lurked. Both Peter and Smee stiffened simultaneously. When such a voice was used, it normally promised extreme discomfort for the one to whom it was directed in the near future. Peter turned back around hesitantly. The captain was smiling. A bad sign. "I think it's time for you two boys to Grow Up," he said. "Be ready in fifteen minutes. You're coming on the Hunt." Both Peter and Smee gasped. Then, two identical broad grins spread across each of their faces. The captain winked. "We'll make men of you yet." Then his expression became stern, and the smiles vanished, and became slightly worried again. "But be ready, or we'll leave without you!"

Peter and Smee saluted delightedly. "Yes, Sir!" they chorused.

"See you on deck, Sailors." The captain said. He turned on his heel, and left. His finely polished black leather shoes squeaked slightly as they ascended the stairs.

Smee let out his breath in a low whistle. "The Hunt!"

Peter slapped Smee on the shoulder. "Mate, do you know just how close we were to becoming fish food?"

"Come on, Peter!" Smee whined. "Just forget that for a moment. The Hunt! Do you realize what that means?"

"The beginning of our lives as something other than fish puke. You don't have to tell me, Smee." Peter grinned. "All the same, we'd better get ready," he said with a laugh.

"Where's my dagger?" Smee called, tossing pantaloons and tunics every which way.

"Under your bed, beneath all the moldy biscuits."

"Thanks."


	3. The Hunt

**Author's Note:** Hey, all! Sorry about the wait, busy busy me:D

**Hope you like it!**

About ten minutes later, Peter and Smee stood to attention with all the other young hopefuls, and the seasoned veterans. It was common knowledge aboard ship that when the captain said fifteen minutes, he meant ten, or if he said five minutes, he really meant three. Peter and Smee had joined the ranks just in time.

The captain paced before them. "Well," he said. His voice was soft, but even so, no one had trouble hearing him. When Captain James spoke, _everyone_ listened; even if his words weren't directed at them. "It seems that you all managed to be ready in time. For all you little ones who haven't been on the Hunt before, you must know that timing is everything. A second too late to dodge, and you'll be wearing an eyepatch- if you're lucky. A minute too late to follow, and you'll be left on shore for the wild beasts to devour. Good form. Be sure to make it a habit." The captain turned to port. "Lower the boats!" he yelled. The men stationed there worked quickly, and soon three splashes announced that the boats were in the water. The captain turned back around. A fire seemed to light his eyes. "Now, boys, to the Hunt!"

It took less than a minute for everyone to pile into the boats. Soon, the splashing of paddles in the water filled the air. "Boy, pull your weight or you'll be swimming to shore!" The captain yelled at Peter. Peter glared, brow sweating from the strain, but managed to speed up his pace to match the other rowers.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the boats beached themselves on the sandy shore. Peter dropped his oar into the center of the boat, just like everyone else. With difficulty, he clambered out of the boat. As soon as his feet touched the sand, Peter's vision began to swim horribly. It looked as if the land was pitching violently from side to side, and he began to see double. Peter swayed, and fell to all fours. He wasn't the only one who didn't handle the transition from ship to land very well. All around him, his fellow boys were tumbling and falling. One even threw up.

From somewhere overhead, harsh laughter sounded. "Poor lubbers," a rough old seaman said. "never stepped on land a'fore." A gnarled brown hand patted Peter on the shoulder, sending him sprawling face-first into the sand. "Don' worry, lads, you'll get used to it in no time. N'er fear." Peter attempted to pick himself up, but collapsed back on his elbows. He spat out his mouthful of wet sand. In front of him, three-no, only one boy got unsteadily to his feet, balance still a bit off. But not long afterward, he stood quite sturdily. Smee grinned down at Peter.

"Come on, Peter!" he said encouragingly. "Jus' stand up! It's easy if you try!" Peter reluctantly sat up. For a moment, he had to hold his head between his hands to keep it from rolling around in circles. His vision got a bit better. Peter pushed himself slowly to his feet, stopping every once in a while to catch his balance. At last, he stood tall and proud. He grinned at Smee, and watched the other apprentices gain their footing. Now that Peter felt better, he found it quite a comical scene to watch. But there was one boy Peter could only feel pity for. He was much smaller than Peter, and looked very green in the face. On his third failed attempt to pick himself up, Peter stepped forward, and held his elbow while the little boy gained his balance. The boy started to open his mouth and thank Peter, but then seemed to think better of it. He nodded gratefully instead.

The captain nodded in satisfaction. "Off we go; and remember to tread lightly." He drew his gleaming steel rapier. "Keep your weapon drawn at all times, you never know when we'll come upon our quarry." He ordered softly over his shoulder. Thrill coursed through Peter. This was it. He was finally going to become a man.

Despite all the excited muttering and longing daydreams about it, the Hunt wasn't particularly exhilarating. Peter wiped sweat from his forehead as the crew paused for a drink from a brook so clear, the only evidence it contained water was the noise and sunshadow dancing in the ripples. Three boys knelt down, and put their faces in the water, slurping noisily. Peter knelt down to do the same, but noticed the captain's piercing blue gaze fixed on the drinkers. Peter noticed, a bit further downstream, a rough old seaman scooping up water with his hand, and lapping it up noiselessly. Peter imitated him. The water trickled between his fingers and turned them pink with cold, but he drank.

Peter noticed Smee starting to drink like his fellows. Peter prodded him in the side, and pointed at the sailor downstream. Smee gave Peter an odd look, but lapped water from his hand also.

The captain sighed in satisfaction, and stood up. One of the sailors took from him the jewel-studded silver cup he had used to drink, and shoved it roughly in a shoulder pack. The crew and apprentices alike stopped drinking and stood to attention. The captain paced before them, as graceful and deadly as a panther.

"Thus far, the Hunt has gone rather well- save that we have no prize. But," he turned, and looked hard at the boys who had dipped their faces in the brook, "had they appeared while we were resting, it is quite certain that _three_ of us would be dead. You must always know your surroundings. This is not possible, I'm afraid, when you've stuck your head underwater." The boys glanced nervously at each other. "You may return to the ship." The captain said, moving on. "You endanger us and are clearly not fit for manhood." The boys sagged, dispirited. It would be a long time before they would be allowed on the Hunt again. They turned, and followed an irritable looking man with an eye-patch. The young boy whose transition had been so miserable followed as well.

"Now that we have eliminated the baggage, let us-" but then, the captain stopped. His eyes flickered around the clearing, and a vicious grin twisted his lips. "Our quarry is upon us," he whispered. He turned quickly, and addressed his men in a low growl, "spread out, and watch your back."

Heart thumping wildly, Peter darted into a nearby bush, his sword at the ready. Through the rush of adrenaline, however, Peter couldn't quiet the question that constantly plagued him. _What are we supposed to be hunting? Probably some sort of dangerous animal._

But what entered the clearing was not vicious-looking at all. It was a young boy about Peter's size. But that was where the similarities ended. His skin was reddish, and his hair was long and black; it fell far past his shoulders. It was captured in a long braid, tied with a leather thong which crisscrossed all the way to the bottom, where there was tied a soft white feather. He wore not much more than a pair of rawhide trousers and a pair of worn moccasins. But the most bizarre thing about this boy's appearance was his face. It was painted in bright colors.

Although interested in this strange boy, Peter felt disappointed. He had thought that their prey had come. He set his sword down next to him, and changed from a squat to a kneeling position. As he watched, three more boys of similar appearance joined the first. They all laughed together, chatting away unconcernedly. One of them put his foot in the stream, and accidentally splashed one of the others. This triggered a water fight. In short order, all four boys were dancing around in the stream bed, soaking wet, but having a great time. Peter frowned. They were going to scare away the animals, and they'd return home empty-handed. The captain wouldn't be pleased. Peter shivered. Or maybe, the animals would think the boys were drowning, and would attack them. This made Peter feel even worse. He decided to go and caution them that there was a dangerous beast somewhere nearby.

But, before Peter could move, the captain emerged from his hiding place behind a large boulder. _Ah, good,_ thought Peter. _He's going to warn them. _The captain approached silently, rapier in one hand, a dagger in the other. Peter's eyes narrowed slightly. _What's he doing? Why doesn't he call out to them?_ The captain raised his cutlass. A malicious smirk rested on his lips, and his eyes blazed with blue fire. In one horrifying instant, Peter realized what the captain was about to do.

"No!" he screamed. He leapt up from his hiding place, to be greeted by puzzled stares from the boys. "Run! Get out of here! GO!" Finally, one of the strange boys noticed the captain sneaking up on them. He howled with terror, and jumped up onto the banks and ran for his life. The captain paused, and took aim with his dagger. With deadly accuracy, the blade hurtled through the air. With a sickening thud, it stuck in the small of his back. He crumpled, screaming in pain.

All of the captain's hunting party, all except Peter, jumped out of their hiding places and surrounded the three remaining boys. One with the silhouette of a bird painted in red on his face tried to make a run for it. To Peter's horror, Smee, his best friend, leapt forward, and skewered the boy through the heart. Peter saw the tip of Smee's blade poking out through the boy's back. Panting with exhilaration, he jerked his cutlass free. The blade was coated almost completely in blood.

Peter's knee's gave way, and he fell down on all fours and vomited all over the bright green foliage. But he forced himself up onto his feet, and ran forward.

"No," he said as loudly as he could. He still felt quite weak. "Stop!" he rasped. "Please!" but his voice was far too faint. Everyone was cheering too loudly to hear him. Peter's foot snagged on a rock, and he sprawled forward. He groaned, and lifted his head up again. Before him was a pair of black leather boots. He grabbed desperately on the ankle. Blue eyes met Peter's. "Captain, please!" Peter begged. "They didn't do anything! Let them go!" In answer, the captain's boot slammed into his face. Stars burst before Peter's eyes. "Please," he whispered groggily, "please." His eyes cleared, and he watched helplessly as the other boys fell to pirate swords.

"Captain, look!" came Smee's voice. But it sounded different. It was deeper, and more gravelly. Peter turned his head to see what Smee was so excited about.

Smee was changing. Before the eyes of all present, Smee was growing taller. His hands expanded, his nose grew, and his brown hair went salt-and-pepper. A grayish beard blossomed on Smee's astonished face.

"Well done, Smee." The captain said from above Peter. "Among the first to kill. Second only to me. Finally, you are a man. Very well done, First Mate."

"Firs' Mate?" protested a man with his entire right arm tattooed. "But Cap'n!" he said angrily. "I'm yer Firs' Mate!"

Without a word, the captain drew a pistol out of his belt, and shot the man through the heart. "Oh dear," the captain said softly as the man's body hit the ground, "It seems we have a vacancy. Smee, would you care to fill it?"

"Aye, aye, Cap'n!" Smee said delightedly, saluting.

The captain rolled his eyes. "And for Davie Jones' sake, man! Clean your sword!" he snapped.

"Yes Sir, aye, aye, Sir!" Smee said hastily, and bent down and wiped the cutlass clean on the grass blades.

All around the circle, boys were experiencing the same changes as Smee. Excited whooping came from all mouths but the captain's, who merely smiled, and Peter's, who lay on the ground, regaining his strength. He could hardly believe what he had witnessed only moments before. He had always known that the captain was uptight and cruel, and, now that he thought about it, the savage act he had done earlier wasn't completely out of sight; but Peter had never figured Smee…

The captain's voice cut through Peter's thoughts. "Good form, all of you." Peter struggled to his feet. "Collect your tokens and we will return to the ship." The captain walked over to the boy he'd slain and pulled the dagger out ruthlessly. He cleaned it with two impatient swipes on the grass. He then pulled the feather from the end of the boy's braid. Smee knelt beside his victim and removed a necklace of rough glass beads. From the other two boys were removed an earring, and a leather bag filled with herbs.

Just as the last man straightened up, the captain called, "Let's go, then." The crew cheered, and followed their captain back to the boats. Peter followed numbly at the very last of the line. Without his notice, Smee fell back to walk with him.

"Peter, you all right?" he asked. His new man's voice sounded awkward and strange.

"Fine." Peter muttered, looking everywhere but at his former best friend.

Smee sighed. "You're feelin' bad 'cause you're not a man yet, ain't you?"

"No, Smee." Peter snapped, turning and glaring at him. "I'm fine. Shut your trap and patter off after the captain, won't you?"

"Well." Smee muttered, turning away. "Sorry I asked." He sped up a bit, and fell into step behind the captain again. Peter glared at his back, and thought bitterly, _what a lap dog._

Peter, being the last, got stuck with riding with the captain, Smee, and a couple others he didn't know.

"Why, Pan, still a boy?" the captain asked him as he grabbed his oar. He sounded unusually cheerful. Peter pretended to be busy slotting his oar, and didn't respond. He was afraid that if he dared direct a word at the captain, it would be shouted. Doubtless, he'd be thrown into the bay to drown. The captain didn't much value human life, after all. However, Peter entertained himself by going over and over the insults he longed to hurl at the captain. For the first time since the slaughter, Peter grinned, slightly.

"That's right, Peter. Smile a little, you'll get your chance to become a man!" Smee said from beside him, apparently having noticed his smile. Peter turned his crocodilian grin upon Smee. _And you, my fine friend, here are some things I'd like to say to you…_

**Hope you liked it!**

Now, hold yourselves patient, okay:D My next chapter might not come for a while, but I'll submit it as soon as I can, I promise:D


	4. A New Resolution

**Author's Note:** Well, here it is, folks :D A bit shorter than usual, perhaps, but essential to the rest of the story!

**Ready... set... READ!**

The rest of the journey passed without event- well, none that Peter noticed, at any rate. He mainly concentrated on his rowing, and coldly ignored everyone in his boat. Smee made a few brave attempts at conversation, all of which Peter ended with only a few terse words. After a while, Smee gave up, and shrugged; in doing so, bumping his oar against the second mate's oar. The man growled fiercely in response. He wasn't happy that the position that ought to have been his had been given away. Smee muttered a hurried apology, and fell back into the swing of the rowing, looking slightly shaken. Normally, Peter would have wanted to defend Smee, but now, he couldn't care less.

Peter was so distracted, that he almost dropped his oar when he rose to leave the boat. This earned him a scathing look from the captain. Peter smiled cheekily back. The captain's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't say anything. He turned his back, and climbed up the rope ladder, followed closely by Smee, then second and third mates. Lastly, Peter stepped onto the ladder. His feet had scarcely left the boat when the crew began to hoist it up. It swung dangerously through the air. Peter actually had to duck on the rope ladder as the bow narrowly missed his head. Once the danger had passed, Peter glared up into the cool blue eyes of the captain. With a snakelike smirk, he tipped his hat, and walked away. Peter ascended up the rest of the way, and caught his balance on the railing. The deck seemed to be swimming slightly before him now. It didn't take long for the dizziness to pass, however.

Later, as Peter was helping to hoist the rigging, Smee waddled up to him, looking ecstatic. His great red, bearded face nearly glowed with happiness.

"Peter, Peter!" he said, almost dancing on the spot.

"What." Peter replied without warmth, not looking away from his work.

"Peter, I got me own cabin! I got ole Razone's ole cabin! He was firs' mate before me!"

"Oh, you mean the man the captain murdered?" Peter said sarcastically. "Yeah, I suppose his cabin _would_ be up for grabs now. Congratulations." he jerked unnecessarily hard on his bowline tie. One thing was for sure, the sail wouldn't fall down of its own accord now.

Smee's face faded. "I though' you'd be happy for me," he said slowly, sounding disappointed and let down. Peter didn't dare look at his face for fear that his anger might disappear into pity.

"I said congratulations, didn't I?" Peter snapped. "What more do you want? Oh, I'm sorry I'm not dancing for joy!" Peter kicked his feet, and performed a hasty, jerky river dance. Every move was oiled with sarcasm. "Oh, well done, Smee! You killed your first boy! Good job, old boy; or should I say, First Mate? Wow, you must be really special for the captain to murder the first idiot who agreed to it so that you could do his job instead!" Peter knew he was shouting. He knew he was rambling. He knew that everyone on deck was staring at him now. He knew all this, and didn't care in the slightest. He leaned forward, and growled in Smee's face, "Congratulations, Smee. You're finally a man." he started to walk away, but turned back. "And one more thing, _mate,_" he snarled. "I will never grow up! Not even the captain can make me!" Peter turned on his heel and stormed off-deck.

In his cabin, Captain James took a long pull from an elegant, hand-rolled cigar. He removed it from his lips, and blew out a long, steady stream of smoke. He sighed, and shook his head. "What a pity." he murmured as the sounds of Pan's angry footsteps died away. "He was coming along so nicely." He set down the cigar, and tilted his head toward the ceiling. "SMEE!" he bellowed.

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	5. Signals

**Author's Note:** Hallo, all :) Sorry it's taken me such a long time to update, and when the time finally rolled around, the reward for your patience was so short. But, at any rate, I hope you enjoy it!

Peter finally left the barracks. He was sick of the stuffy air below deck, he needed some of its fresh counterpart. As he leaned against the ship's railing, staring out at the misted island, a chorus of laughter struck up behind him. Peter turned around.

"Peter, wot's this I 'ear you chickened out on the Hunt and tried to run away?" jeered a taller boy with a black eye.

"It's all rot, that's what." Peter replied bitterly.

"Yeah, I'm sure." the boy retorted. As he grinned, a finger slid casually into his left nostril. Peter blinked. "Come on, boys," the taller said, retrieving his hand to wave to his companions, "let's leave 'im alone. The Cap'n'll have our hides if we roasts 'is goose for 'im." The boy was a bad role-model. His friends were also falling to the terrible temptation many young boys face, to pick their noses. Peter blinked again. They departed, laughing.

Peter shook his head with a sigh, and proceeded to the forecastle at the end of the ship. The tall boy's influence had extended beyond his circle of friends, it seemed. Everywhere Peter went, boys were picking surreptitiously. Occasionally, an old salt would catch one of them, and they would get a hard rap on the back of the head. In fact, it seemed that the nose-picking epidemic had spread to all the young boys on deck with the exception of Peter.

A casual observer would have been appalled. However, if one with a sharper observation were to look on, they would be surprised that this most disturbing behavior seemed only to surface as Peter passed by them. Only a few kept their dignity, not the least of which their hands, clean. These boys were systematically older, and quite often had a rather disconcerting look about their eyes. These boys were very similar in appearance to their older mentors, with the only gap being age.

Peter finally had his fill of fresh air. He turned, and headed back down below. Before he reached the trap door that opened onto the downward hall, he was accosted by Toodles. He was grinning, but with a hint of repulsion.

"Brilliant, Pete." he murmured, accompanying him back down to the bunks. "Disgusting, but brilliant. How many blinks?"

"One." Peter replied.

"One in the morning?"

"Aye, matey." Peter said in a gruff growl, imitating Smee with a grin.

Toodles shook his head. "What a traitor. I never would have thought he had it in him..."

Peter shrugged solemnly. "I couldn't tell. I was his best friend. If I couldn't, who could?" Toodles shrugged, and sat down on his own bunk, which was on the bottom across from Peter. The wind was low, today. There wasn't much that needed doing around the ship. Neither of them had lessons with the Captain today. All that remained now, was to wait.

**Okie dokie.**

I'm sorry, that was kind of gross, I know :) But hey, Peter's a little boy, trying to think of a signal that he knows adults would never do without prompting. If you were a little boy in a similar situation, what would you have thought of? (note: answering this question is optional, should you choose to make me jumping-up-and-down happy by reviewing ;) )


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